A while back I wrote about Joel and I racing his Honda motorcycle against my (event winning) BMX. I mentioned there was only one other time when I’d ridden that fast. Now is the time when we take the time to look at that time. I hope you have time… 0 Many years after my astonishing victory against Joel, during my high school internment, classmate Chris and I used to borrow his crazy uncle’s rusty old mountain bikes and cycle around the city.
Since neither set of our parents were really into the whole ‘looking out for you’ deal, Joel & I mostly just roamed free around the countryside growing up, chatting to homeless people and playing in filthy, dark alleyways whilst child slave traders looked on with a gleam in their eye, dreaming of thumbing through reams of greenbacks.
The thing about being an MK is that once you return home and attempt reentry, the process is like jamming a pickle in an electrical outlet: shocking. And everyone stares at you since you smell horrid and have green goo on your hands. In our 3rd world country (sorry, Developing Nation) we’d become accustomed to wealthy friends and the country clubs, spas, and sauna access they provided.